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My dream is to shoot the person who said this in the face. And I’ve run out of excuses.
I love that it’s so clearly a nod to Breaking Bad in which a man’s dreams of being a murderous meth cook get bigger than his excuses not to be a murderous meth cook.

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My dream is to shoot the person who said this in the face. And I’ve run out of excuses.

I love that it’s so clearly a nod to Breaking Bad in which a man’s dreams of being a murderous meth cook get bigger than his excuses not to be a murderous meth cook.

WORDS WORDS WORDS

Thinking about how the language of philosophy didn’t stick to me the way I imagine it would have a younger person with the same amount of education. I understood everything in the gut, a visceral type of knowledge. Pre-language. But, the part of my brain that should have incorporated the terminology was either damaged or already full. This
 is, of course, a theory.  But what it got me thinking  about is whether children, if forced to read/be  educated, are better off then those like me who  were not, in the long run, academically. Of course,  then I wondered how anyone could have forced  Child-Me to do anything. Would they have had to  outsmart me? Trick me into learning? Or would brutal honesty have been better? 

I think we can agree that short of torture (I’d say threatening my life, but as I recall when I had a gun to my head I spat in the boy’s face who was holding it. So, short of torture) there is no way to coerce me to do anything I do not want to do. Thus, trickery is the only viable option. I use this method on myself often.Would I have been more self aware sooner had some adult in my life sat me down and talked to me like a person? Or if I had been forced somehow to read books?

I was thinking about having been a “feral child”. Obviously I am using hyperbole. I was very much on my own — as much as one can be while not being. I was emotionally and psychologically feral. I suppose I still am. I’m just house-trained now. 

We fostered a kitten back when I lived in Somerville that had become feral. I named her Sociopatches (she was a calico). She’d wake me up by tearing my toes apart with both teeth and claw. It was genuinely horrible. She mutilated us all. Eventually, after a lot of blood and some clever DIY cat toys, she began to direct her insanity toward inanimate objects and smaller prey. Someone adopted her. I never met them. One day she was just gone. From time to time I wonder how things went for her. Did she mellow out in her old age? Did she get declawed? Feline Paxil? I like to imagine her curled up on the couch of some nice family with a beam of sunlight hitting her as she purrs having finally found whatever peace most cats seem to have. But, at the same time, I also like thinking of her running away and living in The Cat Underground rising to the top of the ranks as cat-Godfather or cat-Heisenberg. She dies with no regrets. She was good at it. She liked it. She was… alive. 

The reason I found myself on the subject of incorporating language is because I am bad at selling things. What I mean to say is I am bad at selling my own things. Or, even getting to the point of selling things. What do I mean by selling? 

Recently I created a video comprised of a beat I made in rebirth and some old Russian stock footage that I played around with in Sony Vegas. The product is a sort of minimalist … thing that I can’t really explain. But I like it and I want to do more of it. This made me think I need to study minimalism. What bothers me about this notion is that I already understand minimalism the way any tiny baby does (which is far better than the most educated adult), but it is a gut understanding. It is pre-language and — dear god I sound like Zizek — anyway, if I want to be able to sell (not sell as in exchange for money, but sell as in selling an idea to someone, myself, others…) then I need to learn the language. 

My biggest fear is finding out I already have all the language there is and it’s just too feeble. I Need there to be more because as it stands language is failing me completely. Which is probably why I made the video to begin with. The whole point is expression. 
This is why Van Gogh’s painting “Sorrowing old man” hits me a million times harder than the word “depression”. I’m not saying anything new, I realize. I’m not sure I’m saying anything at all. I lost my train of thought. Mind is going foggy. That clarity lasted longer than usual. Time to take my Feline-Paxil.

There was also something about me being born a Minimalist-Existentialist/Absurdist and that’s who I am naturally. But, like I said, my mind is fogging up. Maybe more later.

paulftompkins:

Please enjoy guests Rob Corddry and The Ghost of Richard Harrow on this video edition of Scott Aukerman's Comedy Bang! Bang! podcast.

Look for the former Mr. Harrow to show up at some point along the Comedy Bang! Bang! Tour this October.

I hate books; they only teach us to talk about things we know nothing about.
Jean-Jacques Rousseau 

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